THE RESURRECTION by L. D. Santee

Seventh-Day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Thursday, February 19, 1880.

FromThe Review and Herald, Vol. 55, No. 8

THE RESURRECTION.

By L. D. Santee

BY L. D. SANTEE.

Up, up, through the fields of azure Shall the countless myriads go, Leaving the earth forever, With its tempest, drought, and woe; And each heart of the immortals With a rapture grand shall beat, As they rise to the glorious mount of God— That rest for the weary feet.

Sweeter than winds in the pine tree, Or the musical rush of the deep, Is the music made by the angels, As their fingers the harp-chords sweep. Loud will the song of triumph In heavenly courts be rung, And the sons of God sing a sweeter song Than when the earth was young.

Some in their early childhood Had closed their eyes so fair; And a mother treasures the empty crib And a curl of her darling’s hair. She weeps for the faded blossom, And her heart is wild with pain; But the promise is sure to the “Rachels,” “Thy children shall live again.”

Death is kind to the children,— Slumber is sweeter than pain,— For the coming years would be clouded, And drip with the sorrowful rain, And their tender feet on the threshold, Paused on the verge of life, Hearing perchance in the distance The jar of the coming strife.

Many the snares awaiting The tender childish feet, Oft would their hearts be aching For the good they had failed to meet, Many the weary pathways They would tread in the years to come; But they fell asleep in the morning, Till the Saviour should call them home.

And some had died in life’s morning, In the bloom of youth so fair, And friends had wept with breaking hearts O’er the poor little empty chair. They had laid them to sleep in the valley, And returned to their homes once more, To list for a voice that is never heard, And footsteps that come no more.

Others in earnest manhood Toiled on life’s rugged steep, Till their hands hung down in weariness, And they closed their eyes in sleep. There’s a vacant place at the fireside, A silence upon the stair, And another grave in the churchyard— They are calmly sleeping there.

Some look out in weariness From eyes that are aged and dim, And their lives die into silence, Like the close of a vesper hymn. There is silver upon the temples, And wrinkles upon the face, And their days are like dying summer In the autumn’s sad embrace.

Worn and weary toilers, Long has the conflict been; Peacefully rest in earth’s quiet, Away from the storm and din. Others shall bear life’s burdens, Others shall moan in pain; Rest thou in peace till the coming King Wakes thee to life again.

And so, from every order, Every condition in life, Have men sunk down into silence, Leaving the cares of life; Carried out from the shadow Of desolate, lonely homes, Resting at peace in the meadows, While above them the rose-tree blooms.

Some from humble stations Passed to a nameless grave; Some ’neath the stainless marble, Some ’neath the rolling wave; Each with an angel watcher Guarding the precious dust, Till the trumpet of God, far-sounding, Shall waken the sleeping just.

Up from the grave’s dark cavern Shall the saints immortal rise, With more than a mortal beauty, With glistening, starry eyes. Far through the fields of azure Shall the songs of triumph ring; For the bands of the grave are broken, And drawn is death’s cruel sting.

There shall be happy meetings With those that were loved and lost, And warm and loving claspings Of the hands that death had crossed. There shall be sweet embraces Of those whom the grave had riven, As they rise and float through the azure sea, To the far-off gate of Heaven. Oh the pearly gates of Heaven, How will they open wide To those that are cleansed from all their stains In the blood of the Crucified. Ring out the loving story That the bars of death are riven; And to Jesus be the glory, For the children’s home in Heaven.

Ward, Wilson Co., Kansas.